I jolt awake at the sound of the door shutting. Then Tristan’s footsteps drawing closer. I blink and glance around quickly. The tableside lamp illuminates the contents of Tristan’s bag scattered across the bedroom floor. The clock reads three a.m.

Tristan halts when he sees me. Looks around at the evidence.

The silence between us is heavy. My heart speeds up, and I brace myself. His belongings are few, but going through them is an invasion of privacy he doesn’t seem to be taking lightly.

His jaw tightens. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

I cycle through any excuse that would justify my behavior. Then I see the letter that I’d read at least a dozen times before dozing off. Tristan follows my gaze. He picks up the piece of paper and lets it float back to the bed a moment later.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he says, his tone clipped.

“It matters. You wouldn’t be this way if it weren’t for what he did. I’ll never forgive him.”

The letter was penned so professionally, so convincingly, like my father was trying to get Tristan into his top choice of colleges. No. My father was nominating Tristan for the front lines, where he could have died and likely should have.

Tristan doesn’t seem to be dwelling on it. He shoves the paper back into its folder, tucks it into the bottom of the bag, and starts packing the rest of his belongings on top of it. He grabs the notebook last.

“Wait,” I say.

“What?” He looks down at it, then back up to me. “Were you looking for this?”

I nod.

“Why?”

I don’t answer, because he already seems to be in a mood. Perhaps not the best time for me to start pitching new ideas on how to get him out of the assassin business. That and he’s historically not a huge fan of my plans.

He tosses the notebook into the bag without another word, zips it up securely, and disappears around the corner into the kitchen. I follow and find him bent toward the refrigerator, pulling out day-old pizza.

“Where were you?”

“At a strip club,” he mutters.

My jaw falls. “Seriously?”

He slams the refrigerator door shut and takes a bite of the slice that probably tasted a lot better when we bought it off the street vendor yesterday. “Does that piss you off?”

I grind my teeth at his challenge, instantly plagued with visions of beautiful, busty women crawling all over him. “What do you think?”

“You going through my stuff pisses me off. Don’t do it again.”

I take a deep breath and attempt to calm my nerves. “Did you at least get a lap dance?”

“No.” He chews in silence a second. “Just a half-cocked plan to take down Company Eleven.”

I still. “What’s the plan?”

“There is no plan.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, what did you talk about?”

“Supposedly Jay made him an offer to bring me in if he got to me before she did.”

“He told you that?”

“Yeah, but Crow’s got his eyes on a bigger prize. He wants to track down more people who hired the Company. Blackmail them like we did Boswell. I don’t know. His logic is if they can afford to knock someone off, they can afford to protect their reputation. Or their lives.”

I bite my lip.

He stares at me. “What?”

“I think that’s a good plan.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I mean, I’m sure it’s a lot more complicated, but the idea has legs, right? If Jay wants you out of the picture, it’s probably because the things you know are a liability.”

“And if I go unraveling every job, we’ll all be dead long before we can collect and disappear. Not that we could ever run far or fast enough from the people we piss off.”

I exhale a sigh and pace to the wall of windows. I can see the faintest reflection of myself. I’m not the person I was a month ago. So much has changed.

“Now that you’ve met with Crow, there’s no reason we can’t go back to New Orleans, right?”

“It’s easier to hide here.”

I turn. “I want to go back.”

He works his jaw. “Like you wanted to go to Brienne’s?”

A cold stillness comes over me. I walk past him toward the bedroom, but he’s on my heels.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Isabel.”

He catches my arm, halting my retreat. I let him because I have nowhere to go anyway. Not at this hour. Not in this little sliver of living space. I wrestle free from his embrace though.

“I was hiding at Brienne’s. I was alone, and I was scared. You sent me off on my own at a time when I couldn’t have been more vulnerable.” My voice cracks as the last words spill free. Words I repeat in my head every time I battle with my guilt over my friend’s gruesome death. If I’d never come back into her life, she’d be alive. If I’d chosen to stay somewhere else, maybe someone else would have died. Or maybe the Company would have hit their mark and I’d be gone.

I close my eyes and try to ignore the same thoughts running the same track. Around and around they go. Never giving me any solace. Never granting me the forgiveness I probably don’t deserve anyway.

“I know,” Tristan says quietly, coaxing me into his arms. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

I lean against him, fighting the relief that inevitably comes when I’m this close to him. I inhale, expecting to smell perfume or the scent of another woman. But it’s just Tristan. I soften into his soothing caresses down my back, realizing he’s barely touched me since we got here. We’ve been close. Sharing the same bed and the same space but emotionally adrift.

“Why haven’t you touched me?”

I look up and search his eyes, noticing the flecks of gray among the pale blue. His unshaven jaw. The tired lines.

“Because it makes me want you, and wanting you is torture.”

Something sparks in me when I remember how I affect him. I slide my hands under his shirt and graze the warm, muscled flesh beneath.

“Then why don’t you just take what you want?”

His eyes darken before they close. I glide one palm higher so it rests over his heart. Its silent beats thrum under my fingertips, steady at first, then faster. My own heart races as energy hums between us. Belonging… Me, to this one man and all his broken pieces. Him, to all of mine.

He opens his eyes, his features a mix of fight and surrender. “It’s not that simple and you know it.”

I shake my head because I can hear his doubts as if he’s said them aloud. He’s hardened against the world and still finding his heart, but we’re tied together in this way whether we like it or not. Through our passion. Our past.

“We’ll never be perfect, Tristan. Not even close. We can only be who we are.”

If he doesn’t believe me, I intend to sway him. So I lift on my toes and press my lips to his. I twine my arms around him. Melt into him until we both surrender to a moment that feels like forgiveness…acceptance. Soft and slow like we’re holding each other’s hurt and imperfections too. The whole ugly, beautiful life that’s ours to chart.

I swallow over the knot in my throat, overwhelmed by how much space Tristan’s always held in my heart. If only life hadn’t erased the space I held in his, maybe all of this would be easier somehow.

“I wish you could remember me.”

He’s quiet a moment, gliding his fingers through my hair. “I do sometimes.”

“You do?” I look up, hopeful.

“When I’m touching you. Or kissing you. When we’re together. Sometimes it’ll trigger little flashes of memory.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs a little, touches my cheek. “It’s mostly…intimate. It’s how I know we were real though.”

My cheeks heat a little. I miss his touches and kisses. I miss the way we move together when there’s nothing between us.

But just as I start to follow more of those thoughts, he pulls away.

“Come on. It’s late. Let’s get some sleep.”

The French doors are slightly ajar. Through them, I can see Morgan working at his desk. The house is quiet. We’re alone here. And even though everything about this house highlights the inadequacy of my own, I find myself crawling into Isabel’s window as often as I can to spend more time here. In her bed, tangled up in her sweet-smelling sheets, making the most of every minute we can steal.

But when Morgan looks up, barely masking his disdain, I remember that I’m hardly welcome here.

“Tristan. Come on in.”

I enter without a greeting, closing the door behind me. I know why I’m here, and it’s not to exchange pleasantries. I take the seat across from his desk, and he gives me a short nod of approval.

“How did the meeting with the recruiter go?”

“Fine,” I say in a clipped tone.

He nods again. “Do you have any questions? Any hesitations I could help clear up for you?”

“Your intentions are very clear, Mr. Foster.”

His grim stare matches mine. “I don’t think it serves anyone for me to be vague. We all want what’s best for Isabel, right?”

If only I were stupid enough to be able to convince myself that I am what’s best for her. I’m clearly not. I know I can make her happy, but I also know she’s giving up dreams for me. That, and I’m not who I was when I met her. Something broke when my mother died, and I don’t know how to fix it. Even the girl I’m desperately in love with can’t seem to make me whole again.

“When will you tell Isabel, then?”

I clench my jaw hard at the veiled hopefulness in his voice. “I guess I’ll tell her when I make a decision.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to spend the next four years being a glorified grunt on the front lines. I know you think I’m worthless, but I actually value my life.”

“I don’t think you’re worthless. I know you’re highly intelligent, and you would bring valuable skills to the program I’ve nominated you for.” He pauses, softening his tone slightly. “I just want Isabel to have a chance to follow through on the dreams she had before she met you. In four years, you can both reevaluate where you want to be, and whatever you choose at that point, you’ll have my blessing.”

I don’t buy any of it. He’s never supported our relationship. Four years won’t change that. Doesn’t matter what degree she’s holding in her hand.

“The signing bonus was significant, wasn’t it?”

I hold back a glare. The five-digit financial incentive the army recruiter offered isn’t a deciding factor, but the money won’t hurt. My mother’s funeral expenses wiped out what little savings we had. I have no idea how I’ll manage a move to California with Isabel when I barely have enough to make rent on the shitty house I can’t seem to give up because it’s the last link I have to my dead mother.

Morgan’s quiet offer to get me onto an elite Special Forces team if I agree to enlist is something I should shove back in his face with a resounding “fuck you” before I drive off into the sunset with his daughter. But as much as his disapproval burns me, the enlistment opportunity is a path that makes sense. It’s an occupation. Stability when I have none. Without it, I’m just a broke, emotionally wrecked orphan who’s somehow managed to win an incredible woman’s heart. One day she’ll figure it out, and I’ll have to live with the resentment that I held her back. I don’t deserve Isabel, but I can try to change that. I can start by letting her have the dream her parents want for her—an Ivy League education and four years of a normal college life that I would have stolen by following through on our UCLA plan.

The truth is I’d likely end up dropping out to support myself anyway. Then she’d have a degree and a job worthy of it, and God knows what I’d be doing trying to catch up.

“What do I have to do to convince you?” Morgan presses.

“It’s not up to you,” I say, enjoying the anxiety my indecision is giving him.

He clears his throat, pausing a moment. “I’ll match the bonus if that would help. You couldn’t tell Isabel about it, of course.”

I shake my head with a disgusted grimace. “I don’t want your fucking money. I want her. She’s the one I’m doing this for, not you.”

His lips form a thin line. “So you’ll do it then.”

Something roils deep inside me. An agonizing sound that has no place to go, so I bury it. I shove it down with the rest of my pain. The rest of the blows I’ve had to take in this unfortunate life. Walking away from Isabel is just another one I’ll have to learn to accept.

“I’ll do it.”

I jolt awake. My breaths come rapidly. I swallow hard, because I haven’t had a flashback like that since we were back in Brazil. Except this one was completely new and vivid. Rich. Almost as if Isabel asked for it when I held her last night and my brain delivered.

Faintly ill, I replay the moment I’d decided to let her go, surrendering our dreams to Morgan, the overprotective father who sealed my fate with an offer I couldn’t refuse. I wasn’t surprised when I read the letter among the other documents in the file after I’d retrieved them from Jay’s apartment. Morgan had the most incentive to get me out of Isabel’s life. And why wouldn’t he want to get me away from her?

My groggy thoughts drift to the dingy house in Baltimore. The dark room where we’d spent who knows how many hours hiding away from the world, planning our life together. All our planning, and I still couldn’t go through with it, knowing I didn’t deserve her.

Not much has changed. She’s still in love with me, is too eager to run away together, and now all I have to offer her is a bank account full of blood money. I exhale a heavy sigh as my heartbeat slows to a normal rhythm. Late-morning light seeps in past the edges of the blackout shades covering the bedroom windows. It’s enough to highlight the lines of Isabel’s body under the sheets. The shadows of her messy hair framing her face as she sleeps. The hues of the fading bruises on her cheek and jaw.

I push up onto my elbow to see her better and feather the faintest caress over the discolored skin. She doesn’t stir. Seeing the bruises eats away at me daily. Every time, I relive the moment where I was forced to watch Vince Boswell land those few vicious strikes before she decided to fight back.

I still don’t deserve her or her love, but every time I think I can turn away from her, something turns me back.

My life used to follow a straight line—an arrow pointed at someone who needed to die. My interests always aligned with the job that had to be done and the people who paid me to do it. Now everything is a vicious tangle of lies and secrets and splintered memories.

I lean down, inhaling her scent. Vanilla, hints of cocoa, and something else—something so deeply familiar that it releases a shockwave of faceless memories every time I taste her. I slide my lips over her smooth skin…giving in…knowing the moments we shared once upon a time live beyond the barrier of my broken brain. If I could unleash them, would the path forward become more clear? Would it mean I could never turn away from her again?

I’m too tired to hold back. So I taste her. A flicker of tongue against her collarbone, then her neck. She moans softly against me, her hot hand dragging lazily down the front of my chest. I should stop now while I’m only a sensation in her dreams. Let her breathing take on its sleepy rhythm again. Keep her at a safe distance the way I have been.

But I can’t. Not when the memory of us is still pulsing like adrenaline through my veins. So real…

Her body undulates faintly as I glide my hand up her inner thigh. All silk and warmth. Her eyelids flutter open with a sigh. I nip and roam as she slowly wakes, answering my touches with more of her own.

“I need you,” I murmur against her ear.

“You’re burning hot.” She lifts her shadowed gaze to mine and rounds her hands over my shoulders. “Did you have a dream?”

Something knots in my stomach. Vulnerability I’m not used to. I silence her questioning with a deep kiss and more eager slides of my palms across skin I’m in a hurry to possess. I knead her through her panties until I can feel her arousal seep through.

Her needy whimpers signal my last shred of willpower disintegrating. I strip her quickly, settle between her legs, and claim her mouth again. She drags her hands down my torso, urging me tighter, closer. Then deeper as I roll my hips and join us. Her awe-filled gasp echoes between us, rushes into all the empty places inside me like a storm rolling in. When she opens her eyes, they hold that drugged kind of haziness I recognize when I’m inside her.

She brings her hands to my face, raking her blunt fingernails along my unshaven jaw. “Tristan,” she whispers. “Tell me.”

This isn’t the time to talk about it. But I can’t escape her or the feelings. I’m overwhelmed by her. By how much I need her. How much I worry I’ll always need her. My lips part. I don’t know what to say, though. How to explain how the dream ripped me open a little more but how lost I still feel in the fog of my memories. How she’s the one clear thing. Her and this love between us that barely makes sense but can’t be denied.

I hush her with a kiss. Hold her tightly. Rock into her slowly. Take. Feel. Revel in her. Mold against her as she wraps around me. Consumes me. Accepts all of me.

My heart twists as my body climbs, tight and fevered. Words clamor and lodge in my throat until she glides her fingers into my hair. Soothes my burning skin with her healing touches. And for a fleeting moment, the darkness becomes a safe shroud around the truth. The union of our bodies opens the door I keep closed, beckons for the words that finally leave my lips as I lower my forehead to hers.

“I want what they took away from us. I want it back.”

Our gazes lock in the darkness. Her eyes glimmer. A mirror of hurt and loss.

“Me too.” She brushes her fingertips over my lips. “We’ll make it right. I promise.”

I don’t know how we ever can, but her words make a vow for both of us. And I believe her.